


Super, Human

by justanotherStonyfan



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Steve Needs a Hug, Steve takes a shower, Very slight Pepperstony if you squint at it and pretend platonic friendships can't exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'When they're done being super, there's still a lot of human left.' The Avengers make it back to the tower after fighting one battle, and now Steve faces another one: He's really, really tired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Super, Human

**Author's Note:**

> Or, "the one where Steve takes a shower, and that's all that happens really"

When they're done being super, there's still a lot of human left.

Contrary to popular belief, they don't rally themselves and walk in formation down the nearest ticker-tape-strewn street, waving their weapons and flashing smiles once the fighting's done. They don't wave and sign autographs, marching around in front of an adoring crowd with their colors bright like a flying flag, picking up small children and winking rakishly once the dust is settling. There's no raucous laughter and thigh-slapping, no jaunty salutes and wry grins. They don't play music through loudspeakers and parade down main street while people wave flags and figures and banners and flowers and scream their names from behind barriers.

It isn't like that at all.

The first thing that surprised Steve was the silence. 

There was always noise in the war but, in the wake of the Chitauri attack on New York, when the battle was over, there was so little to be heard. Birds, long since frightened away, weren't there to sing. People, confused and terrified, had fled. There were no voices, there was no more weapons fire, only the distant crackle of fires and the low rumble of crumbling concrete, the glittery, delicate sound of breaking glass as some of the weaker structures gave way.

When all is said and done, there is very little to be heard. Sometimes there's someone crying, distant sirens wailing, the crackle of fire or the groan of metal but, usually, the damage is done the civilians have been cleared out - those unfortunate few who remain aren't going to be making any sound.

There's no parade. There's no clamouring mass, there's just silence, and the knowledge that everything they've done was done to save as many people as they could. 

Today, Bruce is first inside, stepping out of the elevator by himself. He passes Pepper with a small wave and a tired smile and doesn't touch the walls on his way to his suite because he's gray with concrete dust. It's in his hair, it's all over his skin, and he's barefoot, his shoes having been forfeit to the Hulk's appearance, again. One or two of them have heard him say sometimes just how strange it is for him, that he went a year without allowing himself to become the Hulk, only for the Hulk to be what's required of him.

Clint is next because he's only a few steps ahead of Natasha, and when it's the other way around, it's just the same. They move together as though they're joined at the hip because they've spent time living in other peoples' pockets. Clint and Natasha don't say what each of them are so aware of – that the fight was hard and tiring and they could have lost each other but didn't. Today, Clint doesn't walk so much as limp, putting weight on a limb he was told to rest because he confuses stubbornness with perseverance. Nobody's sure which is which today.

Natasha follows him, her hair damp at her temple where the medics washed the blood away. A gash held together with butterfly bandages marrs her pale skin and tomorrow it will be dark and slender. Today it's bright and the flesh is red and raised, stippled, bruised, the wound looks like it would gape if not for the bandages. But that's what they're there for.

Tony is with them today, the armor having sustained most of the injuries for him. There's a bruise on the bridge of his nose, he favors his left arm from the twist it took, but the suit is ruined. That, at least, is a blessing – Tony can always make more suits, bend the metal back where he'd be looking at broken bones otherwise.

Even Thor seems subdued, doesn't say a word as he follows Tony.

And Steve is last, the way he always makes it. Leading a team is done from the front when they fight, and done by having their backs when the battle's over. He's in pain – of course he's in pain. His limbs are sore and his head aches and he is tired, so tired.

They all are.

“Food?” Clint says, and it's little more than a rush of air.

They've finished fighting evil, battling ne'er-do-wells, but the battle isn't over yet. They have yet to recover – it will take them a day or two. The public appearance Tony was to make tomorrow on primetime television has been cancelled already, was cancelled a few minutes after the last of the dust settled, and they'll all sleep late tomorrow.

But for now, comfort dictates one thing and necessity another. They want to sleep. Steve wants to be in pajamas with warm quilts around him, Clint wants to curl up with his pillows and Natasha, Natasha wants that too. Bruce...nobody can stop Bruce. Tony would be quite happy to fall face-first onto his bed and pass out, but that's not an acceptable choice.

“Twenty minutes,” Steve answers eventually, his own voice slurring. It doesn't surprise him as much as it should. “Shower, change, back here for food.”

“Chinese,” Tony mutters, and there are soft noises of agreement though nobody actually uses words and Tony wasn't actually asking a question.

“J.A.R.V.I.S,” Steve says softly, forcing the word out though his jaw is aching, drawing another breath because he needs it. 

He doesn't need an answer to know he's been heard – they all have favourites, their vital signs are all monitored. J.A.R.V.I.S will order what they like out of the things they need.

Steve needs salt, he's aware of that much.

“Sleeping?” someone asks, and Steve thinks it might be Tony but he's not convinced it wasn't Clint and he's far too exhausted – they're all far too exhausted – to find out.

“After,” Steve answers. He considered saying _After food_ but two words suddenly feel like more than he'll ever manage. 

“Twenty minutes,” Pepper says, and Steve squints at her as a particularly vicious throb in his head momentarily makes the light difficult to handle, having forgotten she was there. It's not anything to be ashamed of – Thor looks similarly surprised to see her and Steve is just as nonplussed to see Tony shuffle past as he was to hear Pepper's voice. His world is narrowing down little by little because he's too far gone to understand and follow all of it. It's becoming a dimly-lit road of things he knows he needs to do, and he's not sure how far the horizon is now.

Twenty minutes doesn't feel like enough. 

Steve knows what he needs to do, he knows they're all aware of the routine. He needs to shower, to change, to come back and eat, but the room stretches out in front of him, the corridor is such a long way. His door will be so heavy when he closes it behind him and the suit...if he could just be out of it without having to go through taking it off. If it would just remove itself, if he could just snap his fingers and be out of it. But he'll have to remove it himself, peel it off and put it somewhere he won't fall over it.

He'll need to go into the bathroom and close another heavy door, start the shower, find towels, find clothes and he'll need to put those clothes on once he's clean.

But there is a light at the end of that particular tunnel, something that spurs him on, something that makes him lift his feet and take that first step so that the other steps will follow – the towel rail is heated. The thought makes him chuckle and the sound is high and breathy, a waste of what little energy he still has, but the thought is true. There are soft, fluffy _warm_ white towels waiting for him and then he can kneel in the shower, he can let the warm water run over him and soothe, cleanse, he can take a shower and dry off and maybe then the clothes will be easier, the walk back will be easier, maybe then it will be so much easier to shovel food past his lips before he gives in and sleeps.

He has to eat. There isn't so much of a need for him to be clean because they all feel this way. They're all tired, all taking step after step after step, one foot in front of the other, to be clean and fresh and comfortable and he considers skipping the shower. But the towels are too appealing.

His head is down and there's a tightness at the back of his skull that he only realizes is the cowl when he tries to scratch a persistent itch in his hair. And that's just one more hurdle.

He's breathing through his nose by the time he closes the heavy bedroom door behind him, and he leans against it for a few moments, his eyes closed, because he can't move his feet to step away. He counts to five in his head and then tells himself to move; he has to. If he doesn't count, he'll just stay right here.

His feet are dragging when he moves away, arms loose by his sides and it feels nice to let them swing, feels like he shouldn't be doing it and that makes it better. Because he doesn't have to stand on parade now, he doesn't have to keep one eye on the sky or run as fast as his body will allow. He chuckles again and it's more of a giggle, and this time he has to be very careful not to choke on the sound and vomit. It wouldn't be the first time. 

He very carefully doesn't look at the beautiful cream carpet when he finally reaches his bed. There will be concrete dust smears all over it because he couldn't muster the energy to lift his feet, but that's all right. In the morning, he'll clean them. If he looks at them now, he might break down.

And it's only when he's standing at the foot of his bed that he remembers he's supposed to have headed for the bathroom.

He stands still, eyes closed, ten seconds this time because he reaches five and isn't yet ready to move. Nine and ten pass and each movement he makes feels as though he's dragging himself along, but he makes it. He reaches the bathroom door and pushes through it with his head and shoulder down because he needs his hands to undress with, and he's not sure he'll be able to lift them twice.

The shower starts automatically because J.A.R.V.I.S is as close to perfect as anything can be, and Steve looks down at his boots, at his belt, fingertips slipping against the closure of his jacket the first time. He fixes his eyes on the towels because he doesn't want to undress. He doesn't want to stoop all the way down to his boots or work at the buckle on his belt or fumble at the closures on his jacket but he will, because the towels are big and warm and waiting there for him. 

Taking one before he's showered is a luxury he feels entitled to today and that's what gives him enough strength to collapse on the lid of the toilet, to work and work and work at his boot until finally the vice around his ankle and his lower leg loosens. He gives up there, starts on the second one and wants to keel over sideways. The bathroom's big enough – if he aimed right then he'd end up on the big rag-rug in the middle of the floor. But if he does that, he's half-convinced he might slip into a coma.

He struggles to remember why that's a bad thing. But the towels are calling to him. He knows how they'll feel when he touches them, and he's half aware of his fixation. It's not always the towels – sometimes it's the carpet under his bare toes or the slide of a soaped-up sponge over the skin of his pectorals, or the thrum of warm water on the top of his skull, or the whisper-catch of his suit jacket over his shoulders and down his spine. Today it's the towels and the way one will feel on the side of his neck – he'll pick it up and hold it there, below his jaw. They'll be his reward for reaching the halfway point.

The other boot comes loose and he's pleased – he'd forgotten he was working on it. He'd forgotten he was still putting effort into taking off his clothes, and his belt is difficult. He has to lean back to get to the buckle because of how his body is hunched, and it's so much effort to do. 

The buckle doesn't give and doesn't give and he fights to keep his breathing steady, sucks in his stomach in case that helps but it doesn't. He's got no choice but to stand and look down, and the counter creaks when he uses it to help himself stand.

He's dizzy not a moment later and he staggers a step or two, almost trips. But he makes it to standing and then he looks down. The buckle, he reminds himself, he has to undo the buckle, and then the hardest parts are done.

He moans out loud in relief when it comes open, says “yay,” very softly because he feels it's worth a celebration and he's alone, so he won't have to put up with ridicule.

And then he thinks. He stops, and waits, and makes himself think about it – SHIELD have a whole department dedicated to uniforms. To measuring and making. Tony does an awful lot towards making their uniforms too. But Steve makes his decision because he knows how to sew. He can repair any damage and, right now, the prospect of something being easier now outweighs the knowledge of having to fix something later.

So he doesn't undo the closures of his jacket, he just pulls until they give.

He ignores them when they ping and clatter because, after that, all he has to do is lift heavy limbs, put all the weight of his arms on the thick blue material until it finally comes over his shoulders, and then he bends and puts all his strength into shoving all the material bunched around him down his legs as far as it will go, jacket, belt, trousers, boxers, all of it. 

It all bunches up just below his knees, which is when he decides he can't bend any more, and then he braces one hand against the wall and lifts the leg that feels least tired. It doesn't work, doesn't help, so he stands on his right foot with his left and tries again, lifting his right leg, wiggling it, pulling. This time, he manages to keep going, pulling his leg free of all the material, and his boot, in one go. It turns the leg of his trousers inside out but he doesn't care – his boot is off, he's got one leg free of the trousers, and the triumph he feels when he looks down and sees himself mostly naked is enough to fuel a burst of determination.

He reaches down, still braced against the wall, and shoves the other trouser leg down, even has enough motivation to take off his socks, and then he lifts his aching head, blood pounding in his temples.

The towels are thick and warm on the rail and he shuffles forward and grabs at one, closes aching fingers around soft, warm terrycloth and presses it to his throat, closes his eyes and holds it against the side of his head like a pillow with both hands. It feels just as good as he knew it would, just as good as he expected and he hums through his nose. 

It feels so good, he feels that he's done so well to come this far. 

_“It has so far been eight minutes, Captain,_ ” J.A.R.V.I.S says and Steve knows there's no video feed from the bathroom – only audio. But he's so tired and can't he just stay where he is? 

He knows he can't. 

He drops the towel (he'll pick it up tomorrow, there are plenty on the rail), yanks open the shower door because, if he doesn't yank it, he won't have the will to try again, and Tony designed the apartment for him, Tony designed the way the huge shower cubicle is rounded at the front, the way the two huge glass doors slide open to the sides to let him in but Steve feels like dropping where he stands.

Steve's skin is sensitive, more so because of the fight. It took them months to find material that didn't chafe, not that he ever got the luxury during the war, but it still leaves him tender and he's not sure how J.A.R.V.I.S knows what temperature water he needs at any given time but he's not going to question it now. He closes the doors behind him before he steps into the spray and then almost inhales a lungful of water as he gasps involuntarily – he'd thought the terrycloth felt good but it was _nothing_ compared to this and if he were the type of man to cry, he might easily do so now.

Instead he looks down at himself, watches the water swirl down the drain gray, and smiles briefly, too tired to maintain it but pleased nonetheless. He always feels cleaner when he can see the dirt washing away. There's blood, too, but the sting of water in his injuries is only temporary, and is a small price to pay for cleanliness.

He'll need to find soap, and he thanks God for small mercies – not only does Steve now have access to liquid soap, instead of the bars of hard, rough, difficult-to-lather-up carbolic that were all his mother could afford, but it's also versatile. He doesn't have to have a million different kinds for a million different uses, he's got one that he can use on his hair and his skin. And it smells really, really good.

It's also, much to his endless gratitude, on a plastic hook at chest-height on the tiled wall so he doesn't have to bend to find it, and he flicks the cap – although it takes a try or two; his fingers are wet – on the sponge thing Pepper gave him – the one that looks like a cloud – and then he strokes at his tender skin. He might scrub if he had the strength, if he felt less like it would scratch him open, but this will do for now. He just wants to be rid of the concrete dust, of the ash and soot, of that old-gym smell they all get but never talk about. He just wants to be able to dress and sit down to eat without repulsing everyone around him. He'll shower tomorrow. He'll shave tomorrow. He'll comb his hair and brush up nice tomorrow. Just not now. Please, just not now.

He longs to close his eyes and just stand under the water but he doesn't dare for fear of falling. He can feel that he's unsteady on his feet, and he considers telling J.A.R.V.I.S but that would temporarily negate the privacy block.

They all have one – Steve's is automatically engaged when he enters the bathroom. J.A.R.V.I.S can hear him if he asks by name, can respond if Steve asks a question, and will go back to not-monitoring the bathroom once Steve is finished talking. So Steve can go about his life with in the knowledge that he does have somewhere to use the head and brush his teeth and take a shower without high-definition security footage confirming it.

And he doesn't feel _that_ unsteady anyway, he should be able to manage a shower.

He washes his hair, massaging his scalp with firm fingertips, and he musters up the willpower to keep his arms raised for that long only because he knows how good it feels when he gets it right. The nape of his neck, the crown of his skull, his temples; it's as much for comfort as it is for cleanliness and Natasha does this for him sometimes, Bruce at other times, the same way they both do it for anyone else who might need it.

Steve isn't as afraid of physical contact as he's sure people like to imagine, and he'd miss it if it weren't there now. They're all comfortable in each others' company, all grateful for a held hand or a random hug or a clap on the shoulder. He entertains the idea, briefly, of asking someone to wash his back – any of them, it doesn't bother him who. 

Not that he'd ever ask, not that he'd ever put anyone in that position, not that it's about sex. He just thinks it might feel nice to have someone else take that kind of _care._ Then again, it might be nice to give it too. 

It would certainly be nice to find out one day, and there's nobody he'd rather ask at this point in his life, nobody he'd trust more, than any one of the people who save his life on so regular a basis. He likes the warm, idle movements of Thor's hand on his back when he comes in with his spine aching, likes the hard press of Clint's fingers when his shoulders ache. Tony likes a good foot rub and Steve is well practised at those (two hundred shows with twenty girls who danced in heels taught him well).

He washes the last of the soap out of his hair and stands still for a moment or twelve, head down as the water pounds on the back of his skull, on his shoulders. He feels it follow the lines of his muscle and he wants _to want_ to jerk off – he does; he's aware of the rush of endorphins it will bring, the instant feel good factor of an orgasm on muscle that adrenaline has abandoned. Fatigued limbs, tender skin, and the rush of pleasure would be wonderful right about now. But he can't just issue a magical order and wait for his knees to go weak by themselves, there's no magical button he can hit for a cry on his lips and stars behind his eyes. And getting there himself will only fatigue him further, will only hurt him more in the long run. It's all too much effort, much like standing, and breathing.

So it's just as well he doesn't really feel like an orgasm right now. 

Getting out of the shower is the next hurdle, the next big battle he has to contend with. Stepping from hot, humid air into cooler humid air is never pleasant but it will prepare him for the freezing cold in the bedroom. At least, it's going to feel freezing cold compared to this. 

Bracing himself for the inevitable, he hits the handle to turn off the flow of water. He should wipe down the inside of the shower, should make sure the sponge gets back on its own little hook, but he'll do it tomorrow. He promises himself, he'll do it all tomorrow.

He pushes open the doors and steps out onto the mat, moves towards the towel rail and that's when makes his mistake.

He's tired, barely conscious at this point, eyelids drooping, the air colder out here than it was in the shower and, as the goosebumps rise, as he tries to reach quickly for a towel before he catches cold (not that he can get sick but he'd still rather be warm), he steps off the mat and, evidently, he's more unsteady than he thought.

He doesn't know much about how his wet foot slips on the wet tile, about how his legs slip out from under him or how absolutely ridiculous he must look – six foot of naked soldier flailing about in the bathroom – because he doesn't get the time.

All he knows really is that he's reaching for the towels and then he's on his back, winded, the sharp jolt of landing on hard tile enough to steal his breath away. And it _hurts._ Hurts his back and his elbows and his ass and he doesn't hit his head but this doesn't help his headache. Not to mention the fact that it's going to take so much _effort_ to get up. 

_Captain?_ J.A.R.V.I.S asks and Steve remembers that J.A.R.V.I.S can't see him but it doesn't make him any less mortified. 

“I fell,” he says, and his voice belies the concrete dust he inhaled before – thick and rough and scratchy. “I just slipped.”

 _“Do you require assistance?”_ J.A.R.V.I.S asked, and Steve sighs, staring at the ceiling.

“No,” he says. “Thank you. I'm not hurt I just...I'm fine, don't worry.”

 _“Very well, Captain,_ and that's the last Steve hears about it for now.

But he feels like such an idiot, lying naked on his bathroom floor. He tries not to think about how he would look if J.A.R.V.I.S took it upon himself to notify someone, if someone actually came in here to find him sprawled naked on his bathroom floor. But being aware of that means that it's one problem he can rectify: He reaches up and snags another towel off the rail, pulling it down on top of him. 

Warm, soft and dry, he slings it over him like a blanket the thing is so huge. And then he figures he can use the wall for leverage, dries his hand on the terrycloth so it won't slip, and counts to ten. And then he counts to ten again because he can't muster the strength to get up off the floor, to keep his eyes open, to haul himself upright again. And then has to count a third time.

He gets as far as 'three' before his body feels like its sinking into itself, sound receding, the floor seeming to dissolve from under him. And then everything is warm, and dark, and he can't remember why he was counting anyway. 

~

Someone is dragging him through sugar-syrup, through thick molasses. It must be that, because it's too much for his body. 

And he's floating, tilted off his axis, the ground feels gone and he can't see enough to know for certain that the sky has moved, but the world feels like it's all in the wrong place. He can't move his arms, can't move his legs, he can't open his eyes but he can breathe, and that's enough.

Something, he can't pinpoint it, something makes the nothing in which he's floating suddenly _shift_ and he feels as though someone has pushed him in a place with no gravity, that someone has set him spinning into space and he's so sticky with it, so held down and sealed-up with it that the cold spinning make him gasp, make him nauseous.

And then, all at once, the ground reappears – and it's behind him.

“Ughh?” he manages, and his eyes come unstuck in time to blind him. “Oh, God,” he mutters, and he swings his arm up to cover his eyes. “No?”

“Come on, Steve,” someone says, a voice that isn't immediately familiar and there's a soft, divided warmth on the forearm currently slung over his his face. “You're on the bathroom floor.”

“No,” he says again, much more a slurred mess than he intends, and he tries to sink back into that welcoming warmth from before.

“You fell asleep, food's already here,” the someone says and oh, God, oh _God_ it's Pepper, it's Pepper Potts, and he's lying where he fell on the--

He lifts his head. It almost kills him to do it and his eyes do not thank him from the brightness he's now facing, but he lifts his head and looks down and _thank God_ the towel hasn't slipped. It doesn't exactly eave much to the imagination, though – slung over the tops of his thighs and his lower stomach, it must have moved, he must have moved as he slept, but it covers him enough that nobody needs to avert their eyes.

“Food?” his brain makes him say, and she smiles at him.

“Come on, Steve,” she says, turning around to walk away, “come on in the bedroom, let's get you dressed.”

And he doesn't want to go, he'd quite like to stay here. His hair is clammy on his forehead and his body is heavy, his eyes are sore.

“Don't make me steal your towel,” her voice comes back to him and she probably wouldn't, but he isn't willing to risk it.

He struggles to get one arm under himself, pushing upward as best he can, until he's sort of sitting on the floor, clutching at the towel just in case. 

“I've found your clothes, you just need to come in here and put them on.”

Her high heels click on the tile a few moments later and he squints up at her as she holds something out to him. “Come on, soldier,” she says, smiling gently, “before there's nothing left for you to eat.”

Underwear. She handed him fresh underwear.

And she walks back into the bedroom while he stares dumbly at the cotton. She brought him the loose ones, the shorts like he used to wear, instead of the boxer briefs he wears under his uniform, the form-fitting fabric that makes it easier to run. These are looser, they breathe more, and although he's a little mortified at the prospect of someone besides himself having handled these, and of someone besides himself knowing what kind of underwear he's wearing, he does also know that Pepper has had to deal with – and has seen – a lot more than this. 

He leans forward and hooks the waistband of the underwear over his feet, lying down to wiggle them up his legs and over his hips. The elastic isn't too tight - it's too loose and, with his skin still being damp, the material has twisted a little. He shifts himself, tugs here and there at the material, until he's comfortable enough to start moving, and then he pushes himself onto his stomach.

On the count of three, he pushes up with his arms, like a press-up, tucking his feet up under him to stand. And he nearly crashes head-first through the glass shower doors as his vision swims and his body sways.

“Come on, Steve, Tony'll eat all the Kung Pao chicken.”

Steve doesn't like Kung Pao chicken all that much but he loves Char Siu ribs, and wants those so badly he can almost taste them. 

He sets his hand against the tile and starts to walk to the bedroom, one step after another, trying not to slip again. His feet hit carpet round about the same time the cooler air makes him feel like he's been dunked into a vat of ice-water and, just for a second, he flinches, curls away, shrinks back. _Your feet are on the floor, you are in New York,_ he tells himself, and Pepper cocks her head at him. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” she says, like his mother used to say to him, and she holds out a cotton t-shirt as he hobbles over. 

The smell of food hits him as he reaches her, and he narrowly avoids retching. His stomach rebels instantly and he tries very hard to fight off the sting in his eyes. Crying because he wants ribs but can't stomach them would be about the stupidest thing he's ever done, and he has no desire for Pepper to be sweet about a breakdown (because she would be) only to discover that it's because he really likes pork in sauce but really doesn't feel up to it.

But it's not just that, really. That's more like the final straw.

“It's okay,” she says, “you don't have to-”

“Pepperpot,” Tony's voice says, the door slamming open with a _bang_ and Steve flinches again.

Tony takes in the sight of Pepper with a t-shirt in her hands, Steve standing in his boxers, and he catches the door on the rebound. Steve is just about to apologise, tell Tony that this isn't what it looks like. But Tony doesn't seem concerned at all.

“He fell asleep,” Pepper says, as Tony walks into the room.

“Ah,” he says. “Yeah, that makes sense. Hey, I snaffled some of those ribs for you, Cap.” 

And Steve gets closer to actual tears every time something happens, winging backwards and forwards between despair and hope. _Food? Really?_

“Where're his pants?” Tony asks, but he spots the pair of gray sweats over the back of Steve's desk chair and goes to pick them up.

“Arms,” Pepper says, and Steve holds them out. He can't hold them _up_ because she wouldn't be able to reach, but she helps him find the collar with his head, helps him tug the white cotton down over still-damp skin.

“Come on then,” Tony says, and Steve shuffles around until he can take the trousers from Tony.

He sits down on his bed and hooks them over his feet, and then he lies down to pull them on. He doesn't think he'll keep his balance if he stands.

Pepper shows him a sweatshirt next, one with a zipper and a hood, and she helps him get his arms far back enough to put it on before she zips it up for him. They move so quickly around him that he just sits still and stares when Tony rolls a pair of socks onto his cold feet.

“Tha-Thank you,” he mumbles, cheeks burning though his toes are still so cold they're sore, and Tony just smiles at him. “Thank you both.”

“Come on, Cap,” he says, holding out a hand to Steve, “and we'll get you fed.”

Steve's stomach growls as he makes himself stand, and Pepper and Tony work their way under his arms. They're not trying to take his weight, that would be foolish. But it's nice enough to have them beside him, have one of each of their hands on his chest, one of each of their arms around his waist.

His stomach growls again, getting used to the smell of food, and he tries to apologize but Tony just laughs, and he walks with Pepper to steer Steve back into the living room. 

Nobody cheers when he walks in, nobody pops champagne. But everybody smiles, pushes boxes towards him across the table as he picks up some chopsticks. And, as he sinks into the couch with Thor on one side and Clint on the other, as Pepper and Tony curl up on the couch, and as the almost-muted television casts flickering light over all of them, Natasha spears a water chestnut on one chopstick and holds it out for Steve to eat, which he takes with a nod of thanks and a smile before tucking into the ribs. 

They're all done being super for the day, and this, just this, is perfect.


End file.
